Each month Writer’s Showcase features a local writer who reads from his/her body of work. This expands our literary community and gives us a chance to know each other and our work more in depth. It is generally held on the third Saturday of the month from 1-3. There is an open mic following the featured presentation where fellow writers of all kinds can read a short piece to share with the audience (5 min per person max). As we grow our attendance and fellowship, we invite writers of all types to participate—including songwriters, playwrights, and comedians as well as traditional fiction, nonfiction, and poetry writers.
To get on our mailing list contact Mimi Whittaker at mimi@mimiwhittaker.com or (707) 481-1778
In Memory of Xian Yeagan
~ May 26, 1944 – Aug. 1, 2017
This page is also in honor of the late Xian Yeagan, who as a beloved artist and community member, was LCAC’s Webmaster for many years in which he shared the work of many local writers via this very website. Xian will always be remembered for his artistry, kind spirit, and encouragement and support of other artists and writers.
Ally?
by Beulah Vega
God,
I am so tired.
I am so tired of being
The brown sacrificial lamb
Amongst
The educated liberal elite.
I am tired of being
The Token.
I am tired of being
Just the living, breathing,
Symbol
Of your superior morality.
I am tired of your assurances,
Of respect and equality;
That always come
On your terms.
I am tired
Of your support.
I am tired of
Your support that
Evaporates,
Like cigar smoke,
Leaving only
A lingering stench,
And a slight stain.
I am tired of the next new cause,
The next new fight,
I am tired of listening
To liberal
ROARS
Of indignation,
That drown out the child
Crying
Beside them.
I have been tired
For. So. Long.
I have been tired
Since I was 4-years old
When I watched,
With my mixed-blood,
All-American eyes,
As my cousin,
Nine. Months. Pregnant.
Was physically forced
On a bus,
While her
Two-year-old;
Mixed-blood;
All-American;
Brown child;
Screamed,
In my mother’s
White arms.
Where was your roar of indignation then?
How can I help?
How can I help,
You’ve asked
A million times.
How can I be,
An ally?
You like that word
Ally.
You, rage
Against the immoral and harmful,
Then you go buy your rainbow shirts,
Made by Indonesian
Children
From Target.
You Protest!
Against, unfair and un-equal laws,
Then you line up at the taco truck
Quibbling about the price,
And questioning the hygiene
Of all those involved
As you eye
The group of teenage boys,
Whose dark hair
Glints
In the same sun that you
Mistakenly thinks,
Powers your car.
You March!
Against injustice
And for humanitarianism!
But you march around,
Giving a wide berth
To the homeless man
Who, though
He served your country,
Can’t. Afford. His. Meds.
So Please,
My dear
Liberal
Friends
My Allies,
Leave me out of your
Go-fund-me,
Feel-good,
March around the capitol,
Followed by fundraising margaritas
And complementary
Tequila tasting,
Served by women
In the faux lace blouses
Of a conquered
Peasant class.
I refuse
To reduce people
Into mere
Political Pawns.
I am still tired
I am still,
So,
Tired,
But I can’t rest.
Because when this political climate changes
When
The next
Humanitarian crisis
Has caught your fickle eye,
When
The next
Well-meaning petition
Comes across your feed
And when your friends
Jump in their hybrids
To form the next
Committee
I will still be here.
Like I have
Always been
Actually living the fight.
The Day We Stopped at the Met
by Joshua Barnes
There was snow in the forecast,
The day we stopped at the Met
Because we had nothing to do –
Lunch behind us and dinner so far ahead –
And no better way to keep our red noses
And gloveless hands warm.
We roved amongst the paintings and statues,
And as we stopped at the foot of the statue of Hercules,
Sweating from the radiant heat of the milling bodies
Who had all decided to stop into the Met as well,
Commenting on the musculature of his bare chest,
The veins and tendons of his feet,
The first flakes fell on the grass of Central Park.